“Yes, I heard this morning,” said Helen. “He’s very well.”
“So there is something left to be thankful for,” said Miss Hawker, leaving the room.
Miss Hawker, Helen thought, was like some mental tonic, bitter and rasping to the taste, but internally invigorating.... Then the pendulum swung back again in the hospital, and a couple more cases that hung to life by a mere thread, strengthened their hold, and passed out of danger. Though it was not permissible to feel dejection when things went badly, it was not only permissible but obligatory to be elated when things went unexpectedly well, and while Robin was safe, and doctors were satisfied with temperature charts, all that was of prime importance in life, apart from the existence of the war at all, must be accepted thankfully as outweighing the rest.
But as the days of January went on, there were events and tendencies which, though they belonged to the class of secondary importance, were intensely pleasing to her. By far the best of these was a certain change that was taking place in her relations with her husband. For years their intimate life had lain so far apart, that they were no more than ships voyaging distantly at sea, and from time to time exchanging a perfectly friendly signal with each other; but of late the interval between them seemed to have sensibly diminished. It was as if Robin had both of them singly in tow, and, in consequence, they were rapidly approaching each other in his wake. His father, no less than she, had always been devoted to the boy, and though, when Robin was secure at home or at Cambridge, this tie failed to bring them together, now, when he was imperilled in the trenches, the steady pull of their love for him resulted in their drawing nearer to each other. To them both Robin’s safety, in their personal life, took precedence of all other desires and aims; it formed a living connection between them.
And as when from opposite sides of some southern pergola two sprays of vine touch and are entangled, they put forth tendrils that grope for each other, seeking interlacement, so between Helen and her husband now, when once the contact was made, it was continually being strengthened by sensitive feelers put forward shyly enough at first, which grew into anchors and interlockings of living tissue. It was, for instance, a very tentative touch, ready to be withdrawn, that made him suggest, a month ago, that he should come down to Grote to spend a week-end there, if he would not be a burden on her time and the arrangements of the hospital, but after that his visits grew frequent.
January turned sleepily over in its winter’s sleep and became February, who dreamed about spring. The moss was vividly green now below the trees, and the sides of the path down to the river were white with snowdrops. Her husband had been unable to get down for the next week-end, but looked forward to an early visit, and for Helen the days passed swiftly in the monotony of a routine that only varied in details. The main end in view was always the same, namely, that the men should move on from the hospital wards into the convalescent wards, and from lying in the loggia should be promoted to the use of their own powers of locomotion again.
No very serious fresh cases had been brought in, and in this mild February air, soft and enervating to the hardy, but stimulating and life-giving to the weak, there was a general all-round rise in the well-being of the wards. Bad cases improved rapidly, slight cases got well, and for the present there was no influx of the severely wounded. She never could quite attain to the professional attitude of Miss Hawker, who one day when a case of pneumonia, following on a slight wound, exhibited very marked improvement, said, “The case presents no further interest.” But she knew that somewhere, down below, there was no tenderer heart than Miss Hawker’s. Her efficiency, as matron, was based on her having it in control. Sometimes Helen wished that her own heart was better drilled; sometimes she wanted to give it all the pangs of which it was capable. Experience was dearly bought, if you had to pay for it with even a superficial callousness. And then again she knew she was wrong. She did not really want Mr. Brinton to grow dim-eyed—as Aline would certainly have done—because an unconscious subject for his skill must lose a leg. Emotion must never impede efficiency, as long as there was anything practical to be done; you had to control such emotions as pity and vague compassion. You could show your compassion best by doing your work well.
There came a morning with a throb of excitement in it. Jaye was promoted to the locomotive dignity of a bath-chair, to be pulled round the lawn by an orderly, and was allowed a half-hour on the terrace. Helen, for whom Jaye still “had a fancy,” accompanied this progress, and Jaye had questions of weight to communicate. The one that really mattered was whether it was reasonable of him to expect that his girl should feel for him now what she undoubtedly felt before when he had two legs instead of one. Apparently there was no question as to the sincerity of her affection when the boy was still a biped. Helen had heard something of that during his convalescence, and she knew that if she had been Jaye’s girl, she would have married him—even at the early age of nineteen, which was the case with both of them—before he had gone out to France. But in the present circumstances, was it fair of Jaye to expect constancy?
“It’s like this, sister,” he said. “If you arsk me if I would marry my girl, she having lost a leg, and me not, well, I should say I must think about it. I dessay I shouldn’t—I don’t see as you could blame me. Now, here am I, same as what we supposed she was, and what am I to expect of her?”
The orderly gave a suppressed giggle and said, “Gawd!”